


A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Related, Domestic Fluff, Dreams vs. Reality, Episode: s02e06 Head Case, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Malcolm Bright has Issues, Malcolm Bright has self-worth issues, Mpreg, Pining, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29655927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: Malcolm and Gil are married, happy, and expecting their first child.Right?--Gil/Malcolm rewrite of s2ep6 Head Case with mpreg
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

Dani and JT are quiet on the way to the hospital. Malcolm doesn't notice at first — seeing as he has what is probably a concussion and all. He's waiting for the ringing to die down, for his head to stop spinning. 

"I figured he'd be here by now," JT murmurs while the doctor pokes and prods at Malcolm. 

Dani knocks their shoulders together lightly. "We'll hear it when he gets here. Just remember to move out of the way."

Thankfully, the doctor declares it could have been a lot worse. That, somehow, some way, not even the baby is harmed. That Malcolm is _extremely_ lucky. He only needs to stay for a little while longer so they can monitor his baby and confirm everything is as it should be. 

"Hey, kid," a harried voice says, the door shutting behind the familiar figure of his husband. His eyes, already creased from years of worry and laughter, are just as strained as his voice, and the lines of his mouth are taut. "Is everything okay?" 

The question is directed at Dani and JT. 

"Doc gave them a clean bill of health," JT assures him. "He can go home soon."

Malcolm closes his eyes against the tears that build and burn. There's something about the sight of Gil so tense, so worried that tugs at him. Something that nags at him. Gil shouldn't be worried (not about Malcolm). He shouldn't have to be (not about the baby). He should be at the precinct wrapping the day's work up (not here, not with Malcolm, something is _wrong_ ). 

A warm hand covers his. "Hey," Gil repeats, this time ever so softly. "I'm here." His other hand rests on the curve of their child over the soft material of Malcolm's designer maternity suit.

"Hormones," Malcolm offers with a chuckle as he wipes away his tears. It isn't the first time he's gotten worked up over nothing, and it won't be the last. 

Gil leans in and captures his lips. 

"And I think that's our cue to leave." Dani shrugs her jacket back on, the shake of her head sending curls to cover the soft quirk of her mouth. She and JT have always been supportive of them, always gave them their space and never complained about their closeness. In fact, both of them spoke up to the brass in favor of them staying on the same team all those years back. 

"Definitely. Tally's sister has the baby tonight," JT adds, grinning. 

Gil rests their foreheads together. "I'll see you two at the precinct tomorrow." His thumb strokes across the swell of their child idly, his fingers splayed. " _We_ have a date at the Whitly house."

Ainsley is the first to see them, and her eyes widen in tandem with her smile. "Mal! Gil!" She finishes filling up the glass of water before setting the pitcher down gently. As soon as it's down, however, she's in motion, her straight hair swinging and her heels clacking across the floor as she darts over to embrace her brother. "It's been forever since you've made it to dinner." Her voice is muffled against the collar of his jacket. "How's my niece doing?"

"We decided it would be a surprise," he reminds her, not for the first time. Or the second. Or third.

"Mmhm." She pulls away and gives Gil a quick but firm hug. "My gut says girl."

"Well mine says doctor," their father singsongs as he enters the dining room with a tray of roast. 

Their mother giggles from behind him, shaking her head. "Well, _whatever_ our grandchild decides to be, there will be quite the hefty college fund waiting for them."

"Thanks, Mom." Malcolm gladly lets her squeeze him tight. The embrace dampens the decidedly off feeling he has, standing here with his family. The two of them have gotten closer these last few months, something cliché and yet true about the shared experience of motherhood tightening their bond. 

That's not to say he and his father aren't close. Martin sets the roast down in the middle of the table and smiles at him. "We didn't think you were coming today, my boy, but I made your favorites!"

His _baby's_ favorites. Gynecology isn't his father's wheelhouse, and yet, he's found time to throw himself into it and keeping up with Malcolm's own unique experience. Malcolm eases himself down into a chair with a wince even as he smiles back.

Which, of course, both his father and sister pick up on. "Oh no, are you okay?" His father's brow is creased.

"He will be," Gil cuts in, placing a hand on Malcolm's shoulder and squeezing. " _Someone_ fell down an elevator shaft today, but the doctor at the ER said he just has a mild concussion. The baby's fine."

No reassurance could stop Martin or Ainsley from moving, however. Ainsley is down in front of him with a penlight in no time, Martin at her side, his eyes scanning over his son for any sign of pain. 

"You know how they are," Jessica says fondly.

Malcolm sighs. "This is what I get for being related to two of the best doctors in New York." And wasn't that funny? He'd spent so much of his childhood at his father's side only to branch off into law enforcement. No one expected Ainsley to fill the void he'd left. 

She's good at her job, too. Good enough to be making waves of her own at a young age, to be climbing the ranks in such a way that the name Whitly doesn't just point to their father anymore. 

Malcolm is proud. They're all proud of her. 

He's also hungry, and so, after they reassure themselves he's alright, they eat.

Feelings of wrongness chase him into his slumber. 

“Hey,” Gil says softly, voice thick and clouded with sleep. “Bad dream?” His hand is warm on Malcolm’s arm. 

His first instinct is to lie. But he shouldn’t. Hadn’t they talked about that? The white lies strained their relationship when it started, and only both of them actively working on _not_ lying strengthened those weak points. Malcolm shakes his head, swallows. “I don’t remember it, but yeah.”

It was blurry even now, moments after jolting awake. Only the feeling of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ persists. 

Gil tugs him close and arranges them so that Malcolm can rest his head on his chest. He doesn’t bother pulling the blanket back up. Malcolm’s skin is heated, slick with the sweaty remains of whatever haunted him, and the combined warmth of their bodies is more than enough to tide them over while he comes down from it. 

Closing his eyes, Malcolm places a gentle hand on his stomach. His baby is still there. Their baby is fine. Tears well up in his eyes at the sheer relief that realization brings. 

Gil brushes each one away with a calloused thumb. “I know, kid.”

And Malcolm can’t take it. “I don’t deserve this,” he says, and the words feel so _right_. “Not you, not this baby.” How did this even happen? How could he be so happy? His entire being is screaming out that he shouldn’t have this, and while he can’t pinpoint a single reason, he feels so sure of it. 

Gil’s arms tighten around him. “You deserve _all_ of this,” he insists. “Even if you didn’t, you have us. I’m not leaving, and our child is going to love you so much, Malcolm.”

The surety in his voice creates a small well of doubt. It’s so rare that he abandons the endearments, and Malcolm clings to it. He has to. 

Something is bothering him. He stops by the precinct to bring Gil lunch, though they both know he’s also there to catch up on the case. The kiss they share is fond, a touch exasperated, and so full of love and acceptance that Malcolm has to take a deep breath before he walks out of his husband’s office to find JT and Dani. 

He’s there with them, in fact, when the call comes in. Wendell is dead. 

Gil glances back at him over his shoulder as the team heads out without Malcolm. 

It hurts, not going. He wants to. He’s a good detective. He’s proven himself over and over and over again, never let anyone make him doubt his own abilities, never let any of the whispers about him fucking his superior for the job get to him. He _should_ be out there. 

Except… he’s not supposed to be out in the field right now. Their baby is much more important, and Malcolm was in full agreement with his husband on that. 

It doesn’t make the itch go away. He goes back to the loft. He paces as he thinks about the case. He showers and contemplates the facts. He carefully spreads the expensive belly butter his mother gifted him across the expanse of his stomach, going over every little detail of the scene. 

He answers the door. 

His father beams at him from the entryway, a large tupperware dish in hand. “I brought leftovers,” he says cheerfully. “I know you two are busy with a case, so I figured a little Sunday night roast wouldn’t go amiss — even on a Monday.”

No matter how many years he’s spent living away from his childhood home, he’s never been able to find a meal better than Sunday night dinners with his family. Having the leftovers here, regardless of the lack of company and atmosphere, makes his shoulders relax. “Just the roast?” There’s no way there’s _that_ much of it left.

“Well, some potatoes and a _very_ healthy serving of greens for my grandchild, too.” The smile on his father’s face is blinding. 

Malcolm steps aside, one hand on his bump. 

“I may have made a few more servings than strictly necessary last night,” Martin admits jovially. He slots the dish into the fridge and makes his way over to give his son a good, strong hug. His expression softens then, not in happiness but in worry. “You’re looking a little peaky. How are you feeling?”

He can see his father is one step away from pulling out the penlight that’s no doubt in his pocket. “It’s nothing.” But the penlight comes out. Malcolm sighs. “I just. I feel weird.”

“How so?” His father tucks the light away, seemingly satisfied with the state of his pupils. He’s not done, though. He brushes the ungelled hair from Malcolm’s forehead and checks around his head for any swelling. 

This is his father. He trusts him. He loves him. There’s no reason to lie, right? Malcolm swallows. “I’ve felt… off. Like I don’t belong here. In this life.” He winces, eyes screwing shut. It’s like a switch has been flipped. Acknowledging it outloud, here in front of his father, makes his head twinge.

For a moment, he’s in a dark space. In the elevator shaft. 

Martin’s hand on his shoulder brings him back. “Son?”

“I need to solve this case,” Malcolm blurts out. “I need to solve this case, and then I’ll be fine.”

“I think what you need is rest,” his father says soothingly, a hint of his doctor voice coming through. 

But Malcolm can’t. 

His father doesn’t stop him. He also doesn’t let him go alone. 

Together, they slip past the team, Malcolm knowing Gil would send him home immediately if he saw him, and they find the sculpture.

They find the solution. They find the killer. 

Malcolm lets his husband inspect him, fret over him without complaint. His head isn’t twinging anymore, but there’s been no great conclusion. Sure, they caught the killer — a well-known serial killer no less — but nothing clears up. There’s no sudden _a-ha_ moment for Malcolm. No quick solution to his off feelings. 

“I can get it,” Gil murmurs to him as he stands to grab more snacks.

Malcolm shakes his head. “I’ve been sitting for too long. Even the baby’s getting restless.”

Any mention of the baby’s wellbeing grants him a pass on most things, so Gil just gives him a quick peck before turning back to the conversation. 

It’s just him and his baby in the kitchen. He idly picks at the tiny pickles, relishing in their sweet sourness. His hand is firmly on his bump. The connection in that simple touch is so grounding, so precious.

“Why are you so determined to wake up, anyway?” His father is standing behind him. His body language is casual. There’s a curiosity in his gaze, but it’s mostly benign.

Malcolm looks at him, and he _knows_. He knows what’s going on. He knows what he has to do. He doesn’t want to do it. He wants to loiter in this moment, in this life. “This is who I am, Dr. Whitly.”

The floor is cold. The elevator is dropping. His head fucking _aches_. 

His stomach is flat. (No, no, no, no, no.) There’s no ring on his hand. ( _Gil_.)

Malcolm screams as he jams the bones in, as he halts the death that’s been creeping up on him for who knows how long. He lets himself have that one moment, that one show of frustration.

Then he gets up. He has a case to solve. 

Gil leans back in his chair, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “So, kid, you gonna tell me where I was in this dream of yours?”

It’s a good thing he’s sitting with his outer jacket folded over his arm, covering his stomach, because his hand finds the flat stretch of it as his chest tightens. He was barely able to breathe after they took their killer in. All he could think about was the lack of movement in his stomach. The lack of a baby. It doesn’t matter that he knows it wasn’t real. It _felt_ real. That was his baby. His and Gil’s. His mind conjured it up, and he knows all too well the mind is a powerful thing. His hand clenches against his suit just thinking about it, about his dreamed loss. He shifts in the seat and contemplates what he’ll say. 

(There were no secrets between them in that life. No lies.)

“Malcolm?”

His eyes snap back up to Gil’s. He swallows. “You were a Lieutenant. JT, Dani, and I were your detectives.”

There’s a hint of disbelief on Gil’s face. Acceptance, too, because he’ll stop pressing if Malcolm stops there.

“And,” Malcolm says softly, looking down again, “we were married with a baby on the way.”

Silence, followed by the soft tap of the tumbler setting on the desk.

“It doesn’t mean anything —”

Gil leans forward. The creak of his chair gives it away. “Your dream was all about working through things. The case, your childhood… your relationships. Bright, look at me.”

And Malcolm does. The face he’s confronted with is soft, curious, anticipating.

Gil smiles, just a quirk of his lips. “Is that something you’d be interested in? Us?” 

He doesn’t need to think. “Yes.”

“A baby?”

Malcolm leans forward. His voice is quieter now but no less sure. “Yes.”

The smile widens. “Dinner at mine tomorrow? We have a lot to talk about.”

It’s a date.

**Author's Note:**

> me: I cannot add another fic to my list, I have so much to do already.   
> also me: but... broyo mpreg rewrite


End file.
